Then we cut to Kai walking into Butchie's lair. She and Dr. Smith exchange cordial greetings, and she quickly lets him know that she's looking for John. We quickly find out that neither John nor Butchie is in the room. Kai amiably asks, "Things slow at the hospital?" "I've resigned," Dr. Smith replies. Kai gives this its deserved response: "Whoa." As she walks out to look for one lost man, another calls after her weakly, "I'm going to check on Shaun in just a bit."

We cut to Cissy in a big ol' Fidel Castro hat and Nicole Richie sunglasses. All that's missing is someone to come in and say, "La Presidenta! Your anteojos are bonita, but your hair, it could use some VO5 hot oil treatment." What we get is actually much better: Linc, who says in a vaguely insulting way, "Good idea, Cissy." Cissy smacks off the glasses and hat and tells him that Shaun's back on the waves. So why are there reporters camped out in front of the house and not at the beach? See, this is why it's a bad idea to outsource your reporting to India. Linc admiringly drawls, "Out with the groms like yesterday never even happened." Cissy is rattled by that, and finally asks, "You got something you need me to sign, Linc?" He tries to throw Cissy completely off her game by being straight-up honest with her: "Today isn't yesterday, Cissy. And I'm not clear on what the new rules are, but I know the old ones have been cancelled." Cissy blusters, and Linc continues, "Do you know everything you need to know, dressing up like Michael Jackson while your boy's out in the water with fifty assholes pointing a camera at him? Works for me. Of course, all those other kids in the water with Shaun...I've signed them already." Cissy mockingly asks, "And I need you? Your steadying hand?" No, what you need is a good conditioner and a decent hairbrush. Linc points out that Mitch is hardly the steady hand here, and Cissy blusters more because Linc's hit a nerve. She then stomps out, telling Linc, "You want to help? Stay -- do the dishes." Yes, Linc. And while you're at it, burn that vile unicorn throw. Linc heads into the kitchen, sighs, and resigns himself to dishpan hands.